Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade Mini Fictions
by akaAuroraBorealis
Summary: Series of short stories shipping Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade.  Stories are written in the 221b format, 221 words long, last word beginning with the letter "b".
1. Hothouse Flower

**Title:** Hothouse Flower

**Rating: **G

**Pairings:** Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** Greg Lestrade crushes on Molly Hooper. A story written in the 221b format: 221 words, the last word beginning with the letter "b".

**Hothouse Flower**

Lestrade was early and he used those extra five minutes to have a quick smoke in the car. He'd been looking forward to visiting Molly, but the moment he arrived, Lestrade was beset by a wicked case of butterflies.

"Not about you, old fool."

One last fierce puff, a stub of his cigarette against the dash, and he was off, marching to her door, giving the buzzer a long, decisive poke.

Molly had nice digs for someone making her salary. Family money, Lestrade reasoned, as that fit with his impression of Molly as a "daddy's girl". Even thinking that term made him blush, although Lestrade knew that it wasn't her girlishness that made Molly attractive. Rather it was her warmth, like sunshine that brightened his bleakest days. A shy, clever, and fragile thing, she was like an odd variety of hothouse flower that thrived in the ghoulish sanctuary of Bart's morgue. No wonder she had him walking on eggshells.

Molly answered the door wearing fresh makeup and a weak, heartrending smile. Jim, dead for weeks, had left his psychopath's stamp on those large tear-reddened eyes. Easy to burn someone's heart out when they wear it on their sleeve.

"Please come in Inspector Lestrade."

Yes. Fine. He'd be what she needed. Lestrade; policeman, father figure. Always tomorrow to float another possibility: Greg, adoring boyfriend.


	2. Angel of Death

**Title:** Angel of Death

**Rating: **G

**Pairings:** Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** Story written in the 221b format: 221 words, last word beginning with the letter "b". Molly sees herself as the Angel of Death. Greg doesn't.

**Angel of Death**

Molly hoped that Inspector Lestrade couldn't tell she'd been crying. The last thing the man needed was another burden piled onto those broad shoulders. The recent deaths, violent and personal, had taken their toll. Face furrowed with worry, clothes smelling of cigarettes; the detective was the one needing looking after. Someone to cook him a nice meal, distract him with funny stories, sooth him with a gentle, knowing hand. Molly would, in a heartbeat, but couldn't. Her skill was with the dead, not the living, not even houseplants. Like the ficus and the fern, the last two men in her life were dead.

How could it be that Inspector Lestrade, Greg (dare she call him that?) didn't see her as the Angel of Death? For there he was, standing in her doorway, smiling that lopsided grin, running those strong working-man's fingers through his thick silver thatch.

"I don't want to impose again, so maybe tonight, if you'd like, we could go out and get a bite somewhere?"

Molly was relieved. Last time she'd been so nervous she'd poured out cups of hot water, having forgotten the tea.

Once out the door Greg took her arm, escorting Molly that half block to his car. Strides matched, the vibrant city seemed to pulse around them. The dusky London sky never looked so brilliant.


	3. A People Person

**Title:** A People Person

**Rating: ** G

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock, potential Molly/Lestrade

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** A story written in the 221b format: 221 words, the last word beginning with the letter "b". Lestrade is good at reading people. Molly isn't.

**A People Person**

"Come. I'll buy you a coffee," the inspector said. The lightness of his smile looked at odds with the rest of him, heavy and careworn.

Molly'd been on her way to the lab-Sherlock was there-but the policeman's offer made her stop and change plans. Men didn't often buy her coffee. Well one had, but he'd turned out to be a psychopath. People were so hard to read.

"Don't remember whether you take sugar." Lestrade dropped a handful of packets on the table.

"No. Just plain." Molly stared as the inspector emptied five sugars into his own cup.

"Cuts the bitterness," he said, wryly. She knew he usually took three. A bad night then—the reason he'd come.

"Here to see Sherlock about a case?"

"Yes, but it can wait. He's occupied."

Following Lestrade's gaze, Molly saw Sherlock and John seated at a corner table. Only John was eating.

"Doing what?" Surely if she could read anyone it was Sherlock.

"Look again, at his eyes, his body language."

Molly looked and saw Sherlock as if for the first time. As usual the detective was cataloging the details of his world. But now he was admiring its center, its heart. John.

Only Lestrade's eyes kept her from falling, held her safe and secure as she whispered her devastating conclusion.

"They're boyfriends."


	4. After The Party

**After The Party**

"Can I give you a lift?"

It was late and Greg didn't want company; but the sight of Molly, clicking unsteadily down the street in her too-high heels made him stop the car. Her long coat covered her Christmas Eve finery but not her dejection. Sherlock, the bastard, had done a number on her.

Molly startled in recognition, then smiled, friendly but unsure.

"That's OK. You probably want to be getting home…or not…"

Molly winced at her own words. At the party, Sherlock had declared Greg's wife unfaithful. Part of Greg wanted to go the usual route and forgive her. Part of him, the tired part, wanted to show her the door.

"Honestly, I haven't decided," he confessed.

Molly pressed a sympathetic smile and climbed in. Minutes passed before she broke the silence.

"Is it too early to call her a stupid cow?"

Greg laughed, surprised and amused.

"Yeah, probably. It's complicated."

Molly sighed.

"Men like complicated."

Silence.

At the stoplight, Greg watched as Molly twisted her hands in her lap. The sight annoyed him, and he found himself covering her hands with his own. Molly jumped in surprise, then crumpled. Her defeat was oddly infuriating.

"Don't let Sherlock have the last word, not about you," Greg commanded.

Molly looked up apologetically, eyes moist.

"He's Sherlock. How can I not believe?"


End file.
